


Misdesignations

by FifteenDozenTimes



Category: Sparks Nevada Marshal on Mars, The Thrilling Adventure Hour
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 07:57:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4821380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FifteenDozenTimes/pseuds/FifteenDozenTimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Red Plains Rider has many names, but only one designation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misdesignations

Croach perceives the blood flowing slightly faster through his veins, which means the air is cool enough The Red Plains Rider will want a blanket even after she has finished building the fire. She will choose to throw it around both of their shoulders, although she knows Croach does not need the assistance to maintain his body temperature, and she will sit close to him although the coolness of his skin compared to hers will not help her warm up.

He is no longer confused by the ritual; he has come to understand that feelings are how humans compensate for their limited senses, and what he perceives as pleasing to nearly all of his senses, she perceives as “comforting” and “romantic”. It is for this moment, or those like it, Croach assumes the Red Plains Rider insisted he come along,

Croach knows she could easily handle the hypercattle rustlers they are after, knows how much time alone she requires, knows what a privilege it is to be here with her.

The Red Plains Rider does, indeed, sit close to him on the ground, throw the blanket over both of their shoulders, and lean against him as if she has trouble sitting upright. She will likely not speak again until she is ready to sleep. He once had difficulty telling the difference between being invited into her presence and into her thoughts. It is obvious enough to him now it seems strange it was ever unclear.

There are six types of wood burning in the fire, based on the variety of scent and crackling. If he focuses, he can detect the faintest trace of scents he associates with Sparks Nevada in the smoke; The Red Plains Rider must have taken old paperwork to use as kindling again. Croach believes she does it in anticipation of the day he notices. It will almost certainly be entertaining.

The Red Plains Rider’s breathing has slowed and evened out, indicating she has fallen asleep. She will have trouble riding the next day if she does not lie down to sleep, but Croach does not need to wake her right away. He keeps his eyes closed, focuses on the faint buzzing of the few comet bugs who are still around this time of year, the constant multitude of sensory information that tells him exactly where they are on the planet’s surface, exactly where they are in relation to the places they call home. 

It is a source of some confusion to him that he only learned the value of meditating from The Red Plains Rider, the least meditative person most beings believe they know.

The fire will burn brightly enough to see by for only half an hour more, at most, and if he does not wish to pretend he believes The Red Plains Rider when she insists she is not sore from sleeping upright, it is time to wake her. 

As he shifts to do so, her breathing changes slightly. She may not be asleep, after all.

“Croach?”

“Yes, Red One?”

“Does our tribe ever use different designations?”

“We do not use the misdesignations you refer to as ‘nicknames’, but you know that already.”

“Right, no, I mean - do they ever change someone’s?”

The Red Plains Rider’s voice is different, in the way that indicates she is not asking about tribal history. She has done this many times - as Croach understands, it is a human habit - but the gap between what she wants to know and what she asks is one that can only be bridged by emotions he has not quite mastered. It is best, he has found, to answer the questions she asks until she gets to the correct one.

“If a being fails to perform the duties associated with their designation, they will be re-designated by Barlok the Wise. It has only happened once in my lifetime.”

“Okay.”

“Had you gone to Barlok before you married Cactoid Jim, he would have changed your designation, as we were no longer betrothed at that point.”

“So us bein’ together means I can’t change it?”

“As you do not use G’rop N’go-goth as your primary designation, I do not understand why you would need to. You have designated yourself, so you could change it at any time.”

“But the tribe still thinks of me as G’rop N’go-goth.”

“It takes some time around humans to become accustomed to the way your names are unlike our designations. I am sure they could learn to think of you as The Red Plains Rider, or Red, or even Dumpling.”

The Red Plains Rider does not object to the use of her possible birth designation as usual, which means Croach has failed to correct whatever is bothering her.

“What if I want a designation, though?”

“You do not wish to be known by your designation, but you do not wish to be known by any of the names you have chosen or had given to you? I do not understand.”

The Red Plains Rider sighs. “I’m tryin’ to get used to bein’ part of the tribe again, right?”

“Right.”

“But my designation’s all about how I _ain’t_ part of the tribe. I got my Nah Notek, I’m learnin’ all the rituals I didn’t pick up as a young’un, I’m spendin’ more time there, but my designation’s ‘that young’un we found’.”

“You are that youngling they found.”

“ _Croach_.”

The Red Plains Rider shifts her weight away from him, sits upright and rubs at her forehead the way she does to indicate that she is tired or upset. When she uses that voice, she is indicating he has committed some failure of emotion, so he pauses to figure out where it was.

“Ah. I believe I understand. That is not how I understood your designation.”

“Okay.”

“The Red Plains Rider, the easiest way for outsiders to join our tribe is by marrying a being who is already part of it. By betrothing you to the youngling closest to your age as part of your designation, Barlok the Wise was ensuring you a place in the tribe as soon as we came of age.”

The Red Plains Rider lifts her head from her hands and looks at him with her brow furrowed slightly and her mouth curling into one of the smiles she uses only rarely, a small one with no smirking to it. It is the face she makes when Croach does something to indicate he has developed or understood a new aspect of human emotion, but he is too focused on her to ascertain what it is just then. He can figure it out later.

“Really?”

“You were not born of the tribe, The Red Plains Rider, but you have always belonged.”

“Because of you.”

“Yes.”

Her smile changes, the corners of her lips revert to their more usual flatness. Croach’s Nah Notek keeps him from tiring out as quickly as humans seem to, but understanding The Red Plains Rider’s emotions requires unusual focus, and he is beginning to understand why they will designate conversations as “exhausting”. 

“Not because of me.”

“I am not sure I understand.”

“Let’s say I’d gone to Barlok the Wise and asked him to change my designation when I’d married Jim. If he’d taken out the betrothal bit, all that’s left is the separate bit.”

“But you did not.”

“No.”

“And you have many times indicated your desire for this relationship to last, which is nearly as good as a formal betrothal.”

“Yes.”

“So I do not understand why it matters.”

“I know you don’t, Croach. But it just does.”

The Red Plains Rider leans her head back on to his shoulder, so at least she is no longer upset with him, if she ever was. Perhaps she is adjusting as well to his failure to fully comprehend her emotions as he is to her failure to say what she means all the time.

“You did not wish to be known as G’rop N’go-goth as you believed it set you apart from the tribe. You do not wish to be known to the tribe as The Red Plains Rider as that certainly sets you apart. I do understand that. Why do you not wish to be known as G’rop N’go-goth now that I have explained it does not in fact set you apart?”

“That ain’t what you explained.”

“Is it not?”

“You said it meant they wanted to make me part of the tribe, right? Well, if my designation means I get to _be_ part of the tribe, it also means I _ain’t_.”

“Oh.”

“Get it?”

“I believe so. Yes.”

The Red Plains Rider lifts her head to smile at him again, and he attempts to mimic the expression to indicate he is also pleased with the resolution of the misunderstanding. She laughs, then, as she always does when he attempts to manipulate his face in mimicry of human expression. It does not, he has been told, work out quite right.

“So does our tribe ever re-designate folks?”

“We will speak to Barlok the Wise on our return and find out.”


End file.
